Selective
My eyes had been bothering me. I began to question if I needed new glasses. The last time I went to the eye doctor, she told me everything was fine. Not to brag, but she mentioned that my eyes were extremely healthy for my age.
My next appointment was this past July. Once again, my delightful optometrist shared that my eyes were healthy. I shared with her the blurriness I had been dealing with. No matter how much I cleaned those glasses, they seemed dirty. Her first question was about screen time. That was certainly a possibility. I had been working on a variety of writing projects. I had to admit my secret indulgence. I had been sitting in front of my computer for hours and days at a time. Has that screen now become my nemesis?
Screen time has made my eyes weary and unhappy. “That happens," she replied. She was a professional and incredibly wise. I then felt like I had just been exposed. I felt guilty for treating my eyes like an unpaid and unappreciated labourer. It all makes sense, now. My body has been tired for years. I now treat my eyes like I used to treat my body. Never thinking of the toll on either. I did what I needed to do without breaks. Hyper- focused on all tasks at hand, to get them completed. I walked out of that appointment with a new prescription shoved in my bag.
When I made it back home, I looked out our back kitchen window. I watched a coyote hunt for breakfast in the back hayfield. It was not blurry. A lone male bluebird sat in the driveway. It was feasting on a gigantic June Bug. A crow sat under the rays of the sun on a pile of old hay in the middle of the pasture field.
Without binoculars, I could see everything that nature wanted to share with me, without the blurry haze I had been dealing with. I turned my attention to the gravel road in front of the house and the hay fields behind. It was blurry. It was obvious to me that there was nothing to see. Nature’s creatures were absent.
That was when I began to wonder and question the prescription in my bag.
Could my eyesight have the same condition as my ears? Or, thinking about it now, My Hero’s ears.
We have heard the rumours and those silly jokes about selective hearing. A phenomenon that “apparently” all genders are susceptible to. I will admit that I do not hear all the conversations going on around me. Be that with family or friends. I do, however, always hear any mention of food. Selective hearing.
I turned my attention back to the kitchen window behind me. A chipmunk scrambles quickly across the lawn. He stands in front of the chicken coop wall. A crack in the foundation, his doorway to the rest of his stash, He squeezes through with a huge black walnut in his mouth. Clear as day, I watched this happen.
I now believe that my eyes only see what they want to see, and when they want to see it. My ears hear what they want to hear. I also have my suspicions that I am not the only one with this affliction.
A snowy white calf walked through the open field gate with her mother close behind. I shout out to my Hero.
Hey, would you grab the laundry out of the dryer? Silence. I wait for a bit. No response. He walks up the stairs empty-handed.
See what I mean?
Today, I am sadly still in possession of that eye prescription. I will get to it when things slow down.
Grace Vanderzande